all that glitters is not gold
by QueenPersephoneofHades
Summary: "A gasp of pain is the last vocal sound he makes." Sometimes, the wounds we inflict cause more damage than is immediately visible. Part 1 of the 'silence is golden' verse.
1. impact

The glint of moonlight on steel is the only warning he gets before the cold, merciless metal curves through the dark and slices into the soft tissue of his neck, cutting him off mid-shout.

A gasp of pain is the last vocal sound he makes as the missile his father sent sailing toward him hits its mark, slicing through skin and something _else_ with a surgeon's precision, making his grip on both deranged hostage and weapon slip upon impact, allowing one to slither from his grip with a howl of laughter and the other to clatter to the ground, forgotten in favor of lifting a hand to the damage inflicted.

It's more surprise than actual hurt that sends him to his knees, collapsing onto the wet pavement as the Bat yells something from far away and warm liquid suddenly mingles with the rain water on his throat.

He barely has a second to realize he's bleeding before the pain registers and his hands press hard against the wound, breath wheezing out in a soundless cry as he falls forward onto his face, not even noticing the gravel pressing against his cheek as fiery needles dig into the flesh around the injury, stinging pain and the numbing ice of the water seeping into the wound mingling to create an intense, searing agony right across the middle of his neck.

He chokes on a mouthful of blood, spits it up with a wet cough, gritting his teeth at such a weak display in front of the two people he least wanted to see before a deeper spike of torment makes him mewl pathetically as he presses both hands to the slick red line across his neck.

Or rather, he _would_ have mewled pathetically, if any noise could actually make it past his throat.

He doesn't have the time to dwell on the lack of sound – this is still a fight, regardless of his apparent defeat; no way in _hell_ is he letting Batman get the Joker away to safety _again._

He tries to lever himself up on one elbow, teeth grinding together as his wound throbs in protest, but there's no time for him to even sit up:

One second, he's face down on the rooftop, slumped over like a limp, bloody noodle.

The next, there's a flash, a deafening, familiar _boom!_ and he's suddenly airborne.

' _Well, fuck._ ' The C4. It must've gone off, or rather, been _set_ off by a certain clown, and now the rather tattered apartment building he'd been using as a home-base has gone up in flames and who the hell even knows where the bastard is right now-

His back hits brick wall, and all the air in his lungs goes out in a _whoosh!_

He doesn't cry out, though; there's no sound at all from his mouth despite the loud gasp, but his ears are still ringing so that doesn't matter.

What matters is the several heart-stopping seconds where he tumbles downward toward the ground, his hit with the wall doing very little to slow his descent.

He lands in a pile of garbage bags – typical – and his body has gained new aches and pains, from the blistered red skin across his arms from the blast to the surely darkening bruises underneath his Kevlar suit, but the worst is still his throat, is still the wound Bruce – his _father_ – had inflicted himself.

It's deep, he can feel that, he doesn't need to be a doctor to know it's deeper than it should be for a nonlethal wound; the second he's able to, he'd going to find Batman and shoot him full of holes because _no killing my ass, you fucking hypocrite, you know how easily I could have died if it went in deeper!_

And isn't that a gigantic middle finger to the Batman; for all his bullshit rules about killing and claims to care about Jason's wellbeing, nothing could chance the fact that Bruce would rather potentially murder his own 'son' than let him kill a mass-murdering psychopath.

The rush of fury and anguish and _hatehate_ _ **hate**_ that swirls through his head is quickly shoved aside as a fresh mouthful of blood is spat out, and his ringing ears and aching body can't disguise the fact that he needs to move. Now.

Get somewhere safe. Patch himself up, possibly find a doctor; would Leslie look after him, after everything the Red Hood has done? He doubts it.

He actually manages to lift himself up on one elbow, teeth grinding together and eyes squeezed shut and throat burning in a terrible foreign way that leaves him breathless and bloody all at once.

Sitting up is a chore; actually getting to his feet is an endeavor that he wishes never to repeat, taking nearly half an hour of pained gasps and a steady stream of curses circling his head.

Eventually, though, he is on his feet again, and pain keeps pulsing steadily through his entire body and blood has already soaked through his gloves and jacket, staining the dark material faintly.

There is a lot of blood – too much, really – and his brain has gotten the fuzzy, muddled effect he recognizes as blood loss, and he's running out of time; Leslie's clinic isn't far from here, but with his head spinning and the Bats' whereabouts unknown, who knew how long it would take for him to get there undetected.

' _Just my luck,_ ' he thinks flatly. He meant to complain aloud, but his neck _really fucking hurts_ right now; making it move unnecessarily doesn't sound like the best idea.

So, with one hand to the alley wall to steady himself and another pressed to his weeping wound to staunch the blood flow as much as possible, he begins making his wobbly way in the general direction of Leslie's clinic, hoping against hope his little airborne tumble into the trash hadn't gotten him too turned around.

It doesn't really occur to his scrambled brain that he hasn't made a sound the entire time.

* * *

 **A/N: And now for something completely different. I saw this headcanon/AU for mute!Jason on tumblr and I- I couldn't ignore it. It was too good, oh my God. I'm not entirely sure** _ **when**_ **I'll add more to this verse, but you can be sure I will at some point!  
~Persephone**


	2. aid

The alleyways of Gotham city are a second home to Jason, more familiar than even the gilded halls of Wayne Manor ever had been; luckily, even with his head spinning in any and every direction, he manages not to get turned around on his way to Leslie's clinic.

He tries to move fast, stay in the shadows – the clinic isn't exactly in the most trustworthy neighborhood, and Batman could still be lurking nearby after the explosion – but his neck is sliced open and still bleeding quite freely despite the hand pressing against it as hard as he dared, almost afraid he's start choking himself if he tightened his grip anymore.

The flow of blood hasn't slowed, and the pain lancing through his entire neck has only grown deeper since it was inflicted; every mouthful of blood coughed out sends a fresh agony afire in his windpipe, and _fuck,_ something is wrong.

He doesn't know what, doesn't know how, but he can _feel_ it; something is Very, Very Wrong with his throat – aside from the massive slice across the middle – and his increasingly ragged breaths and slowing steps are not helping whatsoever.

Had the batarang hit something important? Just the possibility sends his head spinning with fury again – he could've died, _he could have died_ _ **again, what the fuck kind of father does that WHY WOULD YOU SAVE HIM AND NOT ME YOU USELESS PIECE OF-**_

Another cough, this one so hard it dislodges his hand from the injury and he's left to flail weakly as a new torment comes to light as the blood doesn't stop coming up.

Fuck, _fuck,_ could it have nicked an artery when it whizzed past?

Shit, no, it couldn't have been the jugular – he would be very, very dead already if it had – but it definitely cut _something_ major, and, okay, he might be woozy and royally pissed off, but he's still kind of freaking out right now because he has _no fucking idea_ what's wrong with his neck, and-

And Mother of God, the Universe is finally giving him a goddamn break, because stumbling around a corner brings him right to the clinic, and there are lights on, and _shit,_ he's never had this much luck in his life; he sincerely expects karma to come around and smack him with another terrible situation just to be coy, but nothing of the sort happens as he shakily makes his way to the side door instead of the front to avoid the gazes of the vultures that are surely out tonight.

He leans heavily on the wall beside the entrance, shaking his head to regain his bearings – he's so close to a win, he can't afford to pass out now – before lifting a shaking hand to pound on the door.

Well, 'pound' is a strong word; to be honest, he can barely muster the strength to make his tapping audible, and with the thunder booming overhead hearing it must be impossible.

But maybe the Universe really was giving him a break; maybe Leslie had tapped into her motherly instincts for a brief moment. Maybe he is lucky, because seconds after his hand falls from the door it swings open, revealing a familiar figure.

She's almost exactly the same as he remembers – long white coat, large round glasses, hair in a messy bun; it's a little grayer than it was last time, but hell, who is he to judge? – and for a moment all he can do is gape dumbly at her.

She catches sight of him moments later, after her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and when they widen comically he knows he must be a terrible sight; not many things can ruffle the unflappable vigilante doctor of Gotham.

" _What's up, Doc?_ " he tries for a non-menacing, cheeky grin – she always did love his Bugs Bunny impressions when he was a kid – but considering he's soaked to the bone, still in uniform and dripping red everywhere, he doesn't think he quite manages to pull it off.

The yelp that exits her mouth is a lot louder than he'd expected – his own voice had been so quiet he hadn't even heard it – and her face is so suddenly pale and frightened he can't hide a wince in time. She draws back a step, taking in his bloodied, disheveled appearance – and there's no way she couldn't have heard of the explosion by now, her radio is always turned to the news in case of incoming patients – and looks about two seconds away from slamming the door in his face and calling the police.

But then she pauses, seems to realize the blood seeping into his jacket and dripping down his chin is actually his own instead of some hapless victims', eyes trailing over him again swiftly before locking on his face, and, yeah, Jason isn't afraid to admit he teared up a little.

He's taller, broader, stronger, and not nearly as happy and carefree as he had been the last time he'd seen her, but even with the new lines on his face and the white streak in his hair, she'd seen him far too many times in a mask to be fooled by one now.

"Jason?!" her exclamation is shrill and breathless and totally, completely in shock; little dead boys popping out of the grave to visit after they've just committed a huge crime will do that to you.

" _Hey Les_ ," he tries to croak in relief, but all that comes out is a breath and a new gob of blood, which slides sluggishly down his chin to splatter lazily on his already stained jacket, and he doesn't understand – why was there no noise? Maybe the explosion had done something funny to his ears; he can hear Leslie's gasp of mingled shock and horror just fine – but then his knees give out and it's all he can do to stop himself from toppling to the ground face first again.

"Jason!" This time, even though he can feel her hands pushing into his shoulders to try and keep him upright and can see her face in between the black edges around his vision, he can barely hear her shouting; it's like she's at the other end of a tunnel, yelling from far away.

A hand appears atop his own, pressing it more firmly against his throat, and he wants to gurgle a protest – everything else is numb, but _that_ still hurts – but he just blinks heavily at her distorted face.

"Stay awake, Jason, come on, don't black out on me-!"

He doesn't, somehow.

He's not sure how they get inside – his limbs are heavy and numb; he doesn't think his legs could support him if they tried – but eventually rain water stops pattering against his face, and his nose is smooshed into Leslie's shoulder as she tried to lever him onto a cot.

" _Ya smell nice,_ " he thinks loopily, and he might've said it out loud; he can't tell about that anymore, not with everything so quiet now, so distant it all might as well be miles away.

He thinks he hears a voice urging him to do something – anything – but he's so tired… it's finally warm here, he doesn't…

He doesn't think he can stay awake. So he doesn't.

* * *

 **A/N: HELLO. I am back again, because this AU is deliciously painful and I love carving my heart out writing it. There should be one more part to this particular story, and then… we'll see where it goes from there, shall we?  
~Persephone**


End file.
